


The Raven

by therune



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therune/pseuds/therune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new spin on an old story; The Raven, with Rogues</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Raven

It was midnight, a dark, dark night. One of those nights you have been warned of, when the moon is stolen away by clouds and wisps of fog, when the predators awake and when the monsters watch you with a thousand eyes. There is no peace, no tranquility, no sleep. No rest for the wicked. Not that you can sleep anyway, you dread the nightmares, you fear what you will see when you close your eyes, what you hear; the screams that have long stopped, the cries that never were and the sobbing you must have imagined.  
You sit alone in the living room, on a big, plush armchair and it feels like suffocating, like the fabric clutches at you, tries to pull you in. You have been awake too long, the world doesn´t make any sense to you. But it has stopped making sense a long time ago. Your eyelids are like lead, becoming heavier as the seconds tic away and the bells chime in the distance. One, two, three, you nod away, your head jerks upwards, no, not now, four, five, six, you shiver, seven, eight nine, and it goes black and dark and you´re afraid, ten, eleven, you´re gone, twelve.  
Someone knocks. But that´s impossible, not because it´s in the middle of the night, not because you don´t have any friends, not because nobody ever comes to the haunted Rathaway mansion anymore. There used to be music, soft chatter, the clink of champagne flutes, there used to be music. The only sounds now are the rats scurrying around and the melancholy tunes of your flute that haunt this place. The knock is soft, you can barely hear it. With your hearing, that´s almost impossible. You´re wide awake, blood racing. You get up, and reach for the flute. That´s can´t be good, nothing ever is, not anymore. Better be prepared, better be armed, better be careful.  
You´re standing. You´re not shivering, not trembling. There´s not enough feeling left inside of you.  
The heavy curtains move with an impossible breeze. The faint light streams in through the window. You´re tired and your mind creates monsters where there are none, the patterns on the carpet become hellish mouths, the shadows become claws and soft rustling turns into a roar.  
You´re at the door and you hesitate to open it. You´re torn between terror and not feeling anything at all. Your mind tells you not to be afraid, tells you that you´re childish, sleep-deprived and silly, your heart pumps and can´t help but to feel fear and a tiny voice inside your head sneers and tells you that you should resign to your fate. You don´t deserve fear, you don´t deserve to be afraid for your life. You forfeited that right long ago.  
It knocks again and that´s impossible, because there is no one outside the door, there is no one moving, no clothes rustling, no breathing. You open the door and of course, there is no one there.  
You close the door and turn around. You must be going crazy again. You walk back to the chair and sit down. Memories rise from within, they torment you. You remember the smiles, the laughter, you remember James. You miss him terribly.  
Your heart aches and you whisper his name. The sound is like a sigh, soft and gone all too soon.  
The knocking is back, but this time it´s not at the door. The window! Hope rises almost against your will. The only person who ever knocks on windows instead of doors is James. Silly, impossibly, dead James. You chide yourself, the hope is futile. It will only hurt more as you realize that the hope was in vain. James is dead. He won´t knock on your window. He can´t, he´s dead. Nevertheless, you rise and walk to the window. Something tugs at you, pulls you towards the window. Your heart beats painfully with false hope and sorrow. You brush the curtains aside and look, but there is no man standing on thin air, no smile to greet you. There is nothing, just the night and the darkness.  
Of course there is nothing, the dead don´t just rise. You don´t get your friend back like that.  
And you must be going crazy, because you´re not alone, there is someone there. There is a small bird pecking at the window. It´s a tiny fluffy thing, with feathers of blue and yellow. You want to cry. You open the window.  
"It´s much too late for you, little one," you say, as the bird hops inside and tilts its head. "You should go home to your family."  
The bird hops closer, it seems weightless. "I don´t know if I have anything for you," you say and stretch out your hand. The bird eyes it for a while and then hops onto it. It weighs almost nothing. "What am I going to do with you, little one?" you ask, almost as if you expect the bird to answer. It chirps, but it sounds unhappy, almost chastisizing. "What have I done now?" you ask yourself, apparently having just offended the bird. It beats its wings and looks at you, chirping again. "Let´s go to the kitchen, there may be some bread left," if the rats haven´t gotten to it first, you think. The bird looks at you with tiny beady eyes as you walk to the kitchen. You don´t know why you´re talking to it. It´s not like it understands you. The rats are different, the rats know, but the bird - foolish, empty-headed tiny bird - doesn´t understand.  
You enter the kitchen and the bird hops onto the counter, pecking at some crumbs. You really should clean someday. Or not, what´s the use anyway?  
The bird looks at you as you sit down at the table, laying your head on your crossed arms. The bird flies over to the table and hops around as if he´s expecting something. He flutters and it looks as if he´s jerking his head, as if he´s saying "come on, let´s go!". You´re so tired, so tired of it all. You could fall asleep here, as the bird chirps. "What do you want from me? Can´t you see I´m tired? I´m done, I´m-" you´re talking to a bird. Well done, Piper. The bird looks sad. It hops next to your face, tilts his head.  
"Go on, leave," you tell the bird, "I´m bad luck. I will get you killed. Fly, little one, as long as you still can." The birds hops closer and rubs its tiny beak against your hand, almost resembling a carress. You smile. Tiny, little, affectionate bird.  
And that is why he has to leave. Nothing that comes into contact with you survives. Not your friends, not your family. "Leave me, little bird, just go."  
The bird puffs his feathers and you have to laugh. He´s a stubborn one. He´s cute.  
"Go on, leave," you say.  
The bird chirps. In your sleep-deprived, crazy mind, it sounds like "nevermore".  
You fall asleep with the tiny warm body close to your hand.  
The clock chimes the last stroke of midnight. And the magic comes alive.


End file.
